


Love and Dishonor

by megankent



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Episode Related, Love and Honor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megankent/pseuds/megankent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why the hell would Buck *ever* say yes to a sword fight? Answer: he wouldn't! How Love & Honor should have gone, with a little bit of sex and love thrown in, just for the fun of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: The prompt was very open in preference of universe, pairing, and even type of gift. However, Santa was not able to meet the prompter's specific request: _...if slash, I would most like to see a Buck/JD first time where Buck either seduces JD or "teaches" him..._ Hopefully this substitute will satisfy.
> 
> Note 2: Santa is also a horrible procrastinator. Part 1 posted by midnight in Honolulu. ~~The rest will follow~~ Part 2 posted on Boxing Day (again, taking unfair advantage of Hawaii's time zone). I know it's rough. I swear it will get a re-write by New Year's Day.
> 
> Note 3: This starts in the middle of _Love and Honor_. After the opening quote from the episode, the rest should be pretty much unrecognizable. But fun!

BUCK: What the hell are these?  
DON PAULO: The only instruments for a man of honor.  
BUCK: Now, you hold on there, fancy pants. Nobody said anything about swords. Now, around these parts, a fight is a gunfight.  
DON PAULO: No, Senor. You challenged me. The choice of weapons is mine.  
BUCK: Says you. Now, what if I say no?  
DON PAULO: If you admit defeat, the woman is mine. I shall take her, and we shall leave.

"No way in hell!" The muttering of the crowd echoed Buck's outburst. Chris heard Vin's agreement, and spat his own curse, quiet, but just as firm. Then he dropped his hand to hang next to the butt of his gun, just in case. There was no way Buck was getting in a swordfight. Just like there was no way that little peacock was taking any woman back to Mexico against her will, thief or no. Buck had at least that much right. "You pull that piece you're wearing," Buck stepped in close, taking full advantage of his height, "or you tuck your tail and head on out of this town and take your friends with you."

"Ahh, senor, I think not." The idiot didn't have the sense to back down. Buck's laugh was full and round, and Chris felt himself smiling along, because Buck's laugh had that affect on him, even in these inappropriate circumstances.

"Well, I sure ain't using this." Buck drove the sword point first into the dusty street where it swayed, mocking the stupid formality of the whole situation. "You can bring whatever you want, whenever you want." He stepped back a couple of paces, to see if the peacock would take the bait. "Yeah, I thought so. I'll be here in the morning. Come armed, or don't come at all." He turned his back on the Mexicans and gave Chris a wink that said as clearly as if he'd spoken aloud, watch them for me won't you? He stepped up onto the sidewalk and pushed through the batwing doors, disappearing into the saloon, just like any other hot day.

The crowd in the street seemed frozen for a minute, not sure just what had happened, but then someone in the back snickered, someone else joined in, and conversations started up again. Folks wandered away in ones and twos; Inez started toward the saloon, but Mary dropped an arm around her waist and led her away. Chris figured they'd be safe enough, long as he and the boys were watching the Mexicans, and he didn't plan on taking eyes off them until they were far out of town. Or dead.

Within minutes, the middle of the street was empty except for the little Don in his fancy clothes, the gunfighter holding the sword box, and one surly-looking sidekick. Chris eyed his own men, spread up and down the boardwalk, and saw silent agreement from all of them. With a nod, he followed Buck into the saloon, glad but not too surprised to see they had the place to themselves.

"Hey, Chris." Buck was leaning back against the bar, and gestured with his half-empty glass to the shot he'd already set up. Chris threw it back, and reached for the bottle to pour himself another. It had a fine label from Kentucky, but the contents had surely been brewed out back a lot less than eighteen years ago. It burned like fire going down, but if you wanted a quick high or a clean wound it would do the job. Chris turned then, resting an elbow on the bar, and still keeping one eye on the street through dusty windows.

"You having fun with all this, Buck?"

"Hell, yeah, pard." Buck smiled near wide enough to split his face in two. "Ain't you?"

He figured Buck was almost right. Chris wasn't sure what made this mess different from any of the dozens or hundreds of fights they'd taken on just for the hell of it from the day they'd met to the barroom brawl between the cowhands from the James and Henderson ranches last Friday night. But it was, damn it, whether he could get Buck to see it or not.

"You even think of just taking Inez out of town 'til this blows over?" Chris offered. "I hear that new hotel in Eagle Bend is pretty fine."

"Aww, Chris." Buck tipped back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the bar, sharp and loud. "You know me better than that." And he did. "He's an evil little man. He'd follow her anywhere I could take her." Buck muttered the rest so low, Chris had to strain to catch it: "If she'd even come."

"You trying to tell me you're doing all this, and you ain't even had her yet?" Chris guessed he shouldn't be surprised. Buck would take this kind of stand for any woman who needed it, and Chris ought to remember that, for chrissake.

"Aww, Chris. You know the pursuit is half the fun!" It was, for Buck. Chris knew that. The sun rose in the east, rivers flowed downhill, and Buck chased skirts. It was the way the world worked, and no amount of Chris's harping made any damn difference. Never had, probably never would. But just lately, in the days and nights between Buck's conquests, there were times, just the two of them, when Buck would fall silent, and a tension—more sweet than uncomfortable—would steal over them. Chris wouldn't have thought after ten (or a dozen years, if Buck was right) that there was anything new to unfold between them. And yet, this warm feeling was fast becoming more precious to Chris than just about anything this side of the grave.

"Ain't gonna be so fun if his pet pistolero decides to take cards." Buck was a damn good shot. Chris wanted Buck at his back in damn near any situation. But he was only passably fast with his handgun in the best of circumstances; when there was a woman involved, what little common sense Buck had tended to evaporate. He'd be no match for the Mexican gunfighter.

Buck smiled sweetly. "That's why I got you. Right, pard?"

Chris grunted, disgusted at the truth of it. "I reckon." He reached for the bottle and topped up both their glasses. Hell, if they were lucky, Don Paulo would be dumb enough to try and lay hands on Inez tonight, and Vin would take care of the whole mess for them. Chris felt his lips twist in a grin, and tossed back the harsh whiskey. "If you're counting on my help tomorrow, maybe you ought to stand me to a steak dinner tonight."

Buck laughed, that damn, infectious laugh. "If you're so damn worried, you ought to buy me supper." He draped a long arm around Chris' shoulders. "Condemned man and all. "

"Not likely." The heat of Buck all down his left side, hotter even than the afternoon sun, raised a flush of sweat, but Chris didn't move away, just let it seep into him. Until finally Buck slapped his back and then shoved him toward the door.

"C'mon, pard. Whoever ends up paying, I don't want to keep that steak waiting."

It was early for supper, with the sun barely touching the horizon, but Missus Martell had her door propped open, inviting. Chris paused in the doorway to scan the street. Josiah was lounging on the steps of the church, apparently at ease, but for the rifle laid easily to hand. Nathan nodded from the balcony outside his rooms, touching the brim of his hat in a silent salute. Safe enough then. Chris stepped outside, and Buck fell into step next to him.

"Thanks, ma," he teased, offering Josiah a jaunty wave. "You gonna stick by me 'til this thing's done?"

Hell, yeah he was. "Might," he offered. "Depends."

"On what?" Buck sounded both amused and affronted.

"On how big a steak you buy me." He bumped Buck's shoulder, steering him across the street and into the restaurant.

Darkness slid down the street as Buck and Chris lingered over the generous meal. Missus Martell was fussing over Buck, like most womenfolk did, offering him extra helpings and an extra dessert. In the end, she wouldn't let either one of them pay, so Chris figured he was on the hook for watching Buck's back. As if anything could have pried him away.

Their friends wandered through, seeming to take turns to offer Buck best wishes (Josiah and JD), warnings (Nathan), ribald teasing (Vin), or an analysis of the latest odds (Ezra). There was also a steady update on the Mexicans that had them first at the livery, then in the hotel, and finally at the saloon next door to the boarding house. Inez and Mary were being cautious, for once, and had let Vin escort them from the newspaper office to Mary's house for the evening.

"C'mon, stud," Chris finally pushed back from the table. "If you eat any more, we'll have to roll you out in the street tomorrow."

"Aww, Chris," Buck patted his slightly rounded stomach lightly. "You know it wouldn't be polite to turn down Missus Martell's kindness. Besides—"

"Don't—" Chris didn't want to hear any more talk of last meals, no matter how much a joke it was to Buck. He pushed upright, scraping the chair hard on the floor. "You comin'?"

"All right. I'm comin'." Buck pushed upright, but headed back for the kitchen instead of toward the front door. "Just give me a minute." Sure, why not. It wasn't like they had anywhere to be before the morning. Chris sighed, watching as Buck caught the cook up into a big, spinning hug, and planted a kiss on her cheek before setting her back on her feet. She swayed a little, dizzy, and then pushed Buck away, but the flush on her cheeks reminded Chris a little of Sarah, and the times Buck had put a similar smile on her face. Feeling came so easy to Buck: saying it and showing it. Chris didn't think he'd ever had that knack, wondered if it were something he could learn from Buck. If they had the time.

When Buck turned back, he was smiling and flushed, too, and his eyes met Chris's, all a-sparkle with amusement. With life. Chris felt a flush of his own, just under his collar, and had to hope it didn't rise right up to his scalp like Missus Martell's. He turned away sharply. Maybe Buck wouldn't notice.

He turned right out of the restaurant, toward the sheriff office and jail. His boots scuffed lightly along the boards, but the jingle of his spurs sounded sharp, loud.

"Uh, Chris?" Buck wasn't following, had stopped right outside the restaurant. Chris paused but didn't turn. "Saloon's that way." Chris could imagine the easy gesture of Buck's hand, didn't need to see it. "So's the boarding house."

"So are the Mexicans," he countered, and started walking again. He hadn't gone three steps before Buck followed, and in two more long strides they were moving along, side by side. "Figure the office is safer." Sturdy locks, more weapons, and it was more centrally located, too.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a little bit loco?"

"No one who lived to tell about it," he growled.

Buck just laughed, low, and slapped Chris easily across the back. "You go on tellin' yourself that."

Chris traded a nod with Nathan, now seated outside the livery stable, and waved at Vin where he was perched up on the roof across the way. He couldn't see the others, but knew they'd be out. Probably none of them would sleep tonight. None but maybe Buck, if Chris could get him to take one of the cots in the cells. His own night would be long and watchful.

Chris swung the door open, ushering Buck in and locking it behind them, then moved to check that the windows were closed and locked, the burlap sacks that passed for curtains pulled across to hide them from the street.

"Loco," Buck muttered, dropping heavily into the chair behind the big desk. "Pure loco."

"Shut up, and hand me my tools, will you?" Chris pulled up the second chair, straddling the back and reaching across to take the leather roll from Buck's hand. "Oil, too." Buck sighed, and then bent over again, rooting around before coming up with the bottle of oil they used to clean their guns. "Give me your gun."

Buck sighed, but offered the gun across the desk, and took Chris's in return. "What, you think that after wandering around the town all day, all of a sudden they're going to come busting through that door in the next ten minutes?"

Chris didn't answer, just pulled the hammer back to half-cock and dumped the cartridges out of the cylinder one by one. The gun showed signs of the work Buck had put it through this morning, but it would be clean and smooth before Chris gave it back. He untied the lace around the tool pouch and rolled it out flat on the desk between them.

"I think I can clean my own gun, Chris."

"Uh, huh." He could, but between now and tomorrow, this was one thing Chris could do, too. The actions were as natural as shaving: sliding out the base pin, pulling the cylinder, and then reaching for the wire brush and oil. His hands followed the well-known tasks, but it wasn't enough to keep his mind occupied. "You ever think about filing down the sight just a bit?"

"Nope." Buck grinned, smug. "I always say, it's not how quick you draw, it's how deadly you shoot."

"Ain't no one says you can't do both," Chris pointed out. He had a file, he could do it right now, maybe give Buck an extra half-second's edge. He reached for the tool, only to have his hand slapped away. He hissed, frustrated.

"Don't you go messing with my gun, damn it!" Buck reached for it, and Chris pulled back.

"Okay, okay. I won't." He reached for a soft cloth and started to wipe away the dust that clung to the old oil on the frame. "Don't be such a worrier."

"Seems like I ain't the one that's worried in this party." But he leaned back again, and let Chris go on with the cleaning. It didn't take long, really. Chris was sliding the last bits together, wiping away a little extra oil with a soft cloth, and then carefully reloading the gun. He offered it back to Buck, took his in return, and started the process all over again. He hadn't fired his gun today, and had cleaned it last night after the set-to with the Mexicans out by his cabin. But it was something to do with his hands, something to pass the time, and it couldn't hurt.

Soon enough, though both guns were clean and re-holstered, Chris had checked the windows again, and had a quick conversation with Vin through the locked door. Seemed like the Mexicans had retired, but Chris wasn't in the mood to take any chances.

Leaning back against the locked door, Chris tried to relax, but it wasn't coming. "Why don't you get some rest, Buck?" he offered, nodding toward the cot. "The sheets are clean for once." Better than clean, actually. They were brand new, since the last prisoner they'd had had gone and bled all over them, and no amount of scrubbing had gotten the stains out.

"Ain't tired."

He didn't look it, either. But Chris figured he needed his rest. And besides, if Buck would just stop looking at him, maybe Chris could figure out what to do about these damned _feelings_. "I don't really care."

"You ain't my ma, Chris. She was a lot prettier than you, and even she stopped telling me when to go to bed when I weren't more than ten."

"Shut up, Buck." Chris sighed, and then dropped back into his chair, feeling it sway under him.

"You can't be planning to watch over me all night long." Buck looked at him, probing. Chris shifted his gaze away, but not fast enough. "You are! You think you're gonna protect me?" Chris didn't answer, but his silence was as clear as spoken words. "I ain't no kid, and I ain't no girl, Chris." Surprise slid over into anger. "And I sure don't need my ma or my big brother to watch out for me." He pushed upright, settling his gun in his holster more firmly. He made it two steps toward the door, then ran smack-dab into Chris's chest where he stood now, blocking the way.

"Stay." He'd meant harder, the kind of stern order that even Buck followed most days. But it came out a little sad, a little pleading, and Chris snapped his mouth shut before he could give anything else away. Up this close he had to tilt his head back to look into Buck's face, and once again, Buck's heat was soaking through both their clothes, heating Chris like a blazing campfire. He stepped back fast, still blocking the path to the door, but not fast enough. Buck had seen, this time for sure.

"Chris?" The anger was gone as quick as it had flared, but Chris would almost rather have anger than this quiet concern. Gentleness was more than he could handle right now.

"Don't you ever shut up?" Chris muttered. He leaned, back to the door, and looked down, then over at the rack of rifles, and across to the flickering lantern, anywhere but in Buck's eyes. And didn't it just figure that for once Buck would do what he asked, just stand there quietly. The quiet between them was the source of all of it. Times like this, when they were alone, and quiet, and it seemed like there was no one else in the world.

"Chris?" Buck's hand was gentle, too, trying to turn Chris's face up, but Chris wasn't a girl either, to be cosseted this way. He jerked his chin away, then forced his eyes up to meet Buck's, looking for something, a sign, a flicker, that would give him some clue how to go forward, or else how to back away from what suddenly felt like a precipice.

But this was Buck. Good old Buck, his best friend who could always see through Chris's pride, who'd been reading his signs and signals from practically the moment they'd met. It was a wonder it had taken him this long to cotton on. "Well, hell, Chris. Why didn't you say so?"

Chris wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, or have said, and then he couldn't say anything anyway, because Buck's mouth was on his, lips dry and cracked, soft brush of moustache across his cheek, and then tangling in his own stubble. He stood there, caught for just a moment, and then the reaction struck, and his own mouth was open, inviting exploration, exploring in return. Buck's hands, bigger than any woman's, mapped his shoulders, his spine, slid down to cup his ass and pull him in closer. Chris's own hands were tangled in Buck's hair, in his collar, holding their mouths together, until they finally broke apart. Panting, he pressed his face into Buck's shoulder, felt long arms tighten around him, and wrapped his own arms into a hug both familiar and strange.

Chris wanted to ask a dozen questions: what to do next, whether Buck had done this before, when, and why hadn't he mentioned it in the hundreds of stories he'd shared in the last decade topped the list. But questions faded faster than he could form them, and the soft amusement in Buck's eyes had given way to passion. Chris recognized it, even if it had never been turned his way before. But it was now, focused, intent, and it awakened something Chris had thought long dead and buried.

He loved Buck. Hell if that didn't beat all. He loved this crazy, womanizing fool who had a better than fair chance of getting himself killed come morning. "Shit!" Chris pushed, and then pushed again, until Buck stumbled back against the desk. "Damn fool." Chris wasn't sure if he meant Buck or himself, but it really didn't matter, now. He pressed forward, between Buck's legs, and now that Buck was seated they were more of a height, and he didn't have to crane his neck to lean in, to trace his lips along Buck's jaw, up to one ear, and then back across stubble that was fast becoming familiar to the wide, warm mouth.

Buck opened to him, this time, let Chris's tongue delve in, left his hands draped easily on Chris's hips while Chris framed Buck's face with hands more used to tools, and guns, than making love. It was barely and inch, to lean forward, to press his loins to Buck's, to feel the hard bar of Buck's desire. Desire for him, and his for Buck, so clear and sudden that it felt unreal. A dream, maybe.

Buck groaned, low and harsh, and that was familiar, too, heard through a dozen walls, and sometimes closer. It was a sign Buck was near breaking. "Wait!" Chris panted, groping for the fly of Buck's trousers and then further inside, for the opening to the union suit.

"Chris!" Buck's gasp was like a rasp on Chris's nerves, his hand clenched harder than he meant , and then Buck was shuddering, his dick rocking hard into Chris's hand, again both familiar and strange. Big hands, Buck's hands, pulled Chris in closer, nails traced hard up and down his back, sharp pain even through layers of fabric, and then Chris was coming too. Surging forward, thrusting hard against Buck's hip, spending his seed in his trousers as Buck's gushed over his hand and then slowed. After a time, they were both still, spent, only upright thanks to the desk, and Buck's firm hold on Chris.

"Damn." Chris should have known the silence wouldn't last. But he could have wished for a few moments more to gather himself. "Chris Larabee, you surely are a mystery. In all the years I've know you…."

"Shut up, Buck." Chris eased back onto his feet, testing his balance, and then extracted his hands from Buck's clothes, carefully wiping his hand on the tail of Buck's shirt. Buck slapped his hand away, but not fast enough. He figured it wouldn't last long; it never did. But if he could put the conversation off for just a bit, he might find his way out of this. If not, at least he might find the words that could make Buck understand. Or one or both of them could wind up dead, and the whole thing would be moot. "Shut up, and go to bed."

"You coming with me?" Buck's smile was seductive, playful. But Chris wasn't going back down that road again.

"Nope." He turned away to adjust his trousers, now damp and uncomfortable, and got to listen to Buck's snicker. Yeah, it was ridiculous, but… "Get some sleep if you can. I'll be here." It was the truth, and for once Buck didn't fight him, Chris heard the cell door creak open, and waited until the sheets were done rustling before turning back to the room. "Night, Buck," he offered, moving to turn the lamp wick down.

The only response was a grating snore.


	2. Part 2

Buck was still snoring when the first hint of daylight crept in around the burlap curtains. Yawning, Chris pulled the fabric aside, and wasn't surprised to Josiah seated right outside. He had the rifle resting across his knees, but from this angle and with his hat pulled low, Chris couldn't tell if he was awake or not. Chris opened the window a crack.

"Morning, Chris." Huh. Awake all right.

"Morning, Josiah." He kept his voice low, even though it would probably take an explosion to wake Buck this early. "Anything stirring?" Chris rubbed at his dry eyes and stretched, the stiff fabric of his clothes and the still-tender skin of his back reminding him that nothing that had happened last night was a dream. And the very best case scenario would leave him having to work things out with Buck. Later. Much later, he hoped.

"Quiet as a mouse." Chris was only glad he hadn't said the grave.

"I'm gonna step out for a bit. Buck's still sleeping." Hell, Josiah could surely hear the snoring as clear as Chris could.

"I'll keep an eye out 'til you get back." It was a good thing, having folks you could count on. They'd all been together near on a year, and sometimes it still surprised him, how easy that trust came.

"Gracias." Sliding out the front door, Chris locked it behind him and pocketed the key. Josiah chuckled, barely a whisper, and tipped his hat Chris's way before settling back to watch.

Chris tiptoed up the stairs of the boarding house and slipped into his room without meeting another soul. The room was cold, since Chris hadn't been here to light the stove, or even warm it up with his breath, and the water in the wash pitcher was colder still. But it was far too early to get a hot bath, and he wasn't willing to walk around town smelling of his own spunk. Stripping quickly, he used the top of his underwear for a cloth and his shirt for a towel, sponging himself clean and dry. He pulled on his other set of clothes quickly, and thought to stop in Buck's room for a change as well, tucking them into a roll under his arm.

He couldn't have been upstairs more than ten minutes, but when he stepped back into the street, the town was on its way to waking up. A wagon piled highThe doors to the livery were propped open wide, and Chris scanned the inside, confirming that the Mexican's horses were still stabled. He nodded a greeting to Tiny, and kept moving.

Out front of the office and jail, Josiah looked like he hadn't moved a muscle, but he set the rifle aside and stood as Chris approached, stretching up high enough to touch the slanted porch roof. "Nothing moving, inside or out. If you want to take this spot," Josiah gestured at his chair, "I'll see if I can round up some coffee."

Chris nodded, grateful. He watched Josiah amble down the street, then turned to unlock the door. Just as well that Buck was still snoring. Chris left his clothes on the desk and retreated to the chair on the boardwalk, tilting back to lean against the rough plank wall and prop his feet on the railing.

Ten minutes later, Vin stepped out of the restaurant down the way, holding a coffeepot and tin cups in one hand, rifle hanging loosely in the other. He looked about at tired as Chris felt, but his eyes were still raking the street.

"Morning, cowboy," Vin teased, offering up a cup. "Josiah said you might need a cup of Arbuckle's."

"Wouldn't say no." He took the cup, and inhaled the burnt smell of it as Vin poured. "You staying?"

"Wouldn't say no." Vin hooked a second chair with his foot, pulled it over next to Chris's, and dropped into it. "Ain't seen 'em out and about yet," he offered. "But there's a campfire down by the creek with half a dozen horses I ain't seen before."

Could be nothing. Could just as easily be reinforcements. "They Mexican?"

"Can't say." Vin took a sip of the coffee, and hissed. It was still plenty hot. "Couldn't get close enough to hear 'em. But if they ain't, it's pretty convenient."

Best to figure they were. It would be a pleasant surprise if something in this mess fell their way. "We'd best plan—" But plans would have to wait, because speak of the devil, the Mexican gunfighter stepped out on the hotel porch and lit up a cigarillo. No matter how casual he tried to act, Chris knew the man had spotted them, was watching them, and how false the feigned surprise was when he finally did meet Chris's eyes.

"Looks like your friend is headed this way," Vin observed, throwing the dregs of his coffee into the street, then setting aside the cup to pick up his rifle again.

"Ain't my friend," Chris pointed out. "Maybe he wants to talk to you."

"Yeah, right." Vin shifted upright, rifle hanging loose in his right hand. "If he's awake, the others probably are, too. I'd better make go watch over Inez."

"You do that." Chris glanced aside; he was talking to air. Vin was already gone.

"Good morning, Senor Larabee."

"Morning," Chris conceded. Good was probably stretching it a bit. "Shouldn't you be following your boss around instead of down here talking with me?" The pistolero's eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched. Oh, yeah. That hit the bastard in his pride. If the little peacock wasn't keeping his pet gun on such a short leash, they get into it right here. But Chris's argument wasn't with this hired hand; hell, it wasn't his argument at all. "Sorry," Chris offered, though he wasn't. "You got something to say, you might as well spill it."

"I told you yesterday that Don Paulo, the _son_ of my patron, has asked me to kill you." Chris nodded. Old news. "It would honor me to stand against you, to see who is the better, faster man." Wasn't much honor to it, in Chris's mind. But when it came time, he'd show this fancy man what he was capable of. "But I think there is no honor for me in killing your friend over the woman, Inez." He had the grace to look ashamed. "I’m sad to say, my patron's son is a coward."

Chris agreed, but the two thoughts didn't exactly line up. "You came here to call Buck out so your boss won't have to face him?" Chris steeled himself against looking back. Buck was still asleep, and Chris silently told him to stay that way, 'til he got the lay of this new landscape.

"No, senor." Chris waited, and then—Raphael, that was his name—met Chris's eyes, apologetic and defiant at the same time. "Don Paulo has named me his champion. I will meet your friend, to fight for the woman."

"Don't count on it," Chris spat, damn near ready, for the second time in two minutes, to start the fight himself, here and now.

The Mexican's smile flashed, and Chris recognized a streak of loco that wouldn't be tamed. "Magnifico. I will see you in an hour, then." Chris didn't figure that deserved a response and, after a minute, Raphael turned sharply on his heel and marched to the hotel, back straight and head high.

Chris watched until he was inside, then hawked and spat, staining the boards between his feet. "Aww, damn it to hell." Now what were they gonna do? Just because the Don Whatshisname had the sense to let someone else do his gun fighting for him, didn't mean Buck would show the same caution. Hell, it practically guaranteed the opposite. And Chris only had an hour before the whole stinking mess came to a head. He signaled to one of the town kids (he really ought to learn their names, like Vin did), and sent him to fetch Josiah and Vin. This was going to take some organization, and Chris was gonna have his hands full just managing Buck.

* * *

Less half an hour later, with the others on their assigned tasks, Chris swung the office door wide, letting it slam open against the wall, and shocking Buck right out of his slumber.

"Rise and shine, Buck-o!" His only job was managing Buck, and he figured it would wind up being the hardest. But if he couldn't keep Buck here, keep him out of the that damn duel, they'd be burying him, along with as many of the Mexicans as was necessary. For once, Chris was trying to keep the casualty count low.

"Mornin', Chris." Buck's smile was soft, sweeter than Chris usually got, and he he had to give up right then any hope that Buck might not remember last night. Or let Chris get away with pretending it had never happened. Chris scrubbed both hands through his hair, and tried to bring his thoughts back into focus. Keep Buck here. Keep Buck occupied.

"Coffee?" The pot was lukewarm by now, but it was still dark and sweet. As a distraction, it worked pretty well. Buck's eyes tracked the pot closely, and he moved from the cell out to the desk to take the cup.

"Mighty kind of ya, Chris." Buck took a sip. "'Course, it could be fresher."

"Was." Chris gestured to the sun streaming in the window. "Thirty minutes ago when Vin brought it."

"You could have woken me," Buck pointed out. "'Stead of letting me sleep the morning away."

"I ain't your ma," Chris snapped, and immediately wished he hadn't.

"That's right," Buck nodded. "You ain't."

Not his mother. Not even his big brother, as Buck had pointed out last night. Best friend, certainly. But any authority Chris had was offered freely, and as easily revoked.

"Is there anything I can sat that would change your mind?" Chris asked, serious.

"Not hardly." Buck was serious, too. "But let me tell you something. I don't know this Don feller. But I have met men like him. I see it in his eyes what he's got planned for Inez. It's a livin' hell."

"But—"

"No. Chris. I gotta do this." He reached for the clean clothes and started stripping, right there. Chris couldn't help but watch: long, strong limbs, broad chest, narrow waist. Chris forced his eyes away. A crowd was already forming in the street, up by the hotel.

"What if I told you the Don wasn't coming?"

"Heck, Chris. If Vin ran him out of town last night, I'm fine with that. Long as Inez is safe." Chris felt the air shift as Buck stepped closer, clapped him on the shoulder, then left his hand there just a little longer than was common, even for Buck.

"Nah, it ain't that." Chris shrugged away. "He's sending the pistolero, Raphael, instead." Chris snorted, "Calls him a champion."

"So?" Buck's bravado was so transparent it hurt. "He's damn near as pretty as the other. I got nothin' to worry about."

"You ain't gotta do this on your own, Buck." How the hell could this get so twisted up in Buck's mind? He couldn't really think that any one of them would let that bastard take Inez, but he was still bound and determined to do this solo.

"I told you, Chris. I ain't no kid and I ain't no girl. You don't need to fight my battles for me."

"You ever think maybe I'm not doing it for you?" Damn his mouth. It just kept spitting out things he never meant to say out loud.

"I can't let her down, Chris." Buck shook his head. "I just can't do that to any woman."

"Screw that, Buck." Chris pushed him then, back against the desk, but with much different intent than last night. "You can chase women all day, sweet talk them all evening, and bed them all night for all I care. But you ain't gonna die for them if I have anything to say about it."

Buck shoved back, sending Chris stumbling a few steps. "Well maybe you don't."

Fury flashed through Chris like lightning, from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes, and that quickly it was gone again, leaving a cold, calculating anger. If Buck wouldn't listen to words, Chris would have to try something else.

He stepped in close again, but instead of pushing, he reached one hand up to Buck's jaw, and let the other drop to Buck's belt, then lower. Dark blue eyes widened with surprise, then pleasure, rocking forward into Chris's touch. And then Chris folded his left hand into a fist, and with a quick cross, laid Buck out cold across the desk.

For such tall drink of water, Buck wasn't too heavy. Chris folded him over one shoulder, and dropped him on the cot in the cell, watching his head bounce and then fall still. Chris locked the barred door behind him, tossed the keys onto the desk, and stepped out on the sidewalk whistling quietly between his teeth. That was gonna come in handy.

* * *

"Damn you, Chris! You let me out right now." The jail was two blocks down, with closed doors and windows, but that wasn't near far enough that everyone in this little drama couldn't hear Buck's every shouted word.

"It seems, senor, that maybe this wasn't quite as agreeable to Mr. Wilmington."

"I don't think that's a concern for you, is it?" Chris smiled, taunting. The Mexican gunfighter had been angling for this since the moment they'd met, certainly long before Buck had laid hands on his boss. Chris was more than ready to give it to him.

"It does not. This will be an honorable contest. Win or lose, it ends here."

Chris didn't figure Vin and Buck would see it that way, but he didn't see any reason to let his opponent know that. Or to trust the rest of the Mexicans, neither. He had his own men spread around, watching every unknown face and shadowed corner.

"Whatever you say," Chris nodded, and tucked his jacket back behind his hip, clearing the path to his gun. "You want to get to it? Or stand here jawing all day?" He smiled, insolent, and ready for the next move, whatever it might be.

"Maybe we should ask the lovely Inez to count to three. Just to insure fairness." All eyes turned to Inez, where she leaned up against the hitching rail with Mary at her side. Who'd have ever thought those two would have the time of day for each other?

"I don't—" she protested.

"If that's what he wants, Inez," Chris said. "I'd be obliged just to get this over." He nodded, trying to pitch his voice all sweet like Buck would do. It felt strange, and from the look on her face he ought to practice a bit more. But she nodded firmly.

"All right." She gathered herself to her full height. "One." Chris settled his weight evenly, and watched for any twitch of eye or muscle that would signal movement by his opponent. "Two." A deep breath in, then slowly out, consciously relaxing, letting his muscles hang loose. "Three."

Chris made his move, hand-to gun, thumb-to-hammer, finger-to-trigger. It was almost, not quite, faster than thought. And then he fired, almost surprised that he'd beaten the Mexican after all. But in that split second, instead of a killing shot, Chris pulled the bullet left of center, the impact still spun Raphael back and down, but maybe not dead. Not yet, anyway.

There was a moment of tense quiet, and then, suddenly much closer and louder than it should be, Buck's voice, shouted, "CHRIS!" Spinning, Chris raised his gun, tracking the cowardly Don, now brandishing a Derringer. But before he could bring his Colt in line, a shot rang out. No, two shots, so close they rolled into one echo. Buck was there—Chris set aside the question of how he'd gotten out of the cell to just be glad he had—and his deadly accuracy drove a bullet between those beady brown eyes, leaving them wide open in shock forever. The second shot, center mass, was quickly staining the fancy white clothes bright red. Chris tracked the angle, back to the pistolero whose gun was also trailing smoke.

Then, from the back of the crowd, there was movement, covered immediately by Vin from his position on the roof across the street. There were more moves, more Mexicans; it figured Vin's strangers had shown up to take cards. But they were countered by Ezra, Josiah, JD, Nathan. He thought for a minute that it was over, but there was no end to the stupidity. Even with their boss lying dead in the street, someone drew on JD. Ezra shouted a warning, followed by the sharp crack of JD's twin guns, the deeper roar of Vin's rifle, and then it was a melee.

While fierce, the battle was over in seconds, and Chris's silent headcount assured him everyone he cared about was still upright. Most of the Mexicans were dead or wounded, a couple had seen sense and thrown down their guns. Nathan was kneeling in the street with one big hand pressed against the wound in Raphael's side. Chris stepped forward, doing his own quick assessment of the injury. Chris had seen a lot worse. Hell, he'd dealt worse almost every time he'd pulled his gun.

"He gonna make it?"

Nathan nodded. "Looks like you're losing your aim, Chris."

"Uh-huh." Chris met Raphael's eyes, driving home the truth of what had happened, and then stepped back so Nathan and the kid who helped Tiny out at the livery could lift him up, hauling him up the stairs to Nathan's surgery. At the back of the crowd, Ezra and Vin were steering a couple of prisoners down the street toward the jail.

A big hand, warm and familiar, landed on Chris's shoulder. Buck. How the hell… But before Chris could even form the question, the hand pulled him around, and he didn't have time to avoid the fist driving into his gut like the kick of a damn Missouri mule. Breath gushed out of him, and he folded, falling. He gasped, hard, but there was no room in his chest for that next breath, and the pounding agony in his stomach faded in the face of his desperate fight for air.

"Buck! What did you do that for?" JD's voice was thin and distant, and Chris had a second to wonder if maybe we was gonna die today after all.

"He deserved it." Buck sounded a little closer, and then his face swam into focus, right in front of Chris. "Now come on, you. Just calm down and take a breath." Chris tried, and got a tiny sip of air. It wasn't much, but it gave him hope. "Go on," Buck urged. "Again." Chris gasped out, and in again. It still hurt like hell, but he was grateful to be breathing, however harshly. "C'mon," Buck wrapped one arm around Chris's shoulders, levering him up to sitting, which eased his chest a bit more.

Buck's other hand, spread across Chris's chest an belly, continued to urge him to breathe deeper. But something was wrong. There was blood on Buck's hand, staining the lines of his fingers, painting his nails pink.

"You hurt?" Chris finally managed to spit out. If they'd gone through all this, and Buck still managed to get himself shot… Well, Chris would think of something to do, damn it, just as soon as he could breathe again.

"What?" Buck frowned, confused. "No!"

Chris wrapped his fingers around Buck's wrist, pulling it up between them, displaying the offending blood. He tried, best as he could from his position, lying half on top of the man, to spot any wounds. But Buck wasn't helping the situation, running his hands up Chris's arms, into his hair, and then down his sides—

"Ow! Fuck!" Buck's hand on Chris flank was like fire.

"JD," Buck's voice was low, urgent. "You better get Nate." Wait, if Buck wasn't hurt, why… "I think Chris was shot."

Shot. Huh. He couldn't remember it. Hadn't felt a damn thing until Buck went and stuck his fingers in there. Maybe they could just go back, and start this whole day over again.

"Aww, shit, Chris." Buck's hands were gentle, now, pulling his shirt out from the waist of his pants, pulling apart the torn fabric beneath, all the while keeping up a monologue of curses and complaints. "Why'd you have to go and get shot, you stupid bastard." The prattle went on, but Chris was paying more attention to breathing, which was coming easier second by second. When he felt ready, Chris pushed Buck's hands away, did his own tactile assessment.

A hands-breadth wide and barely a fingertip deep. It burned like a brand, but he'd live. "Ain't but a scratch. I've had worse." He had, sometimes with no one but Buck to patch him up and nurse him through the fevers. Nate might not even stitch it. "Let me up."

"Nope," Buck pinned him with barely more than a finger. "Think you better just lie here 'til Nate gets back." Chris gathered his strength to get up anyway, but Buck smiled with a hint of the devil, and pressed every-so-lightly on the scratch.

"Oh, fuck. You bastard," and now Chris was gasping his own litany of insults. Buck just smiled and held him still. Trapped, Chris's mind stumbled back into the puzzle it had set aside several minutes ago in favor of survival. "How the hell are you out of that cell anyway?"

Buck smiled, smug. "If you would treat folks nice, every once in a while, Chris, you might have a friend or two to help you out." Which didn't make things any clearer. Chris was knew the boys had been staking out the Mexicans. Even if JD had wanted to, he wouldn't have left his post to set Buck free.

"Who?"

"Missus Martell heard me hollering and carrying on, and she stuck her head into the jail, just to make sure everything was all right." The cards unfolded in front of Chris's eyes: a woman, a little sweet talk, the keys handed across, and then Buck charging into the middle of a fight Chris had done everything he could to keep him out of.

"Buck—" Chris wasn't sure if he was going to curse the stupid bastard, or thank him, but he didn't get the chance for either. Nathan leaned in, pulling Chris's hand away, and then doing his own, none-too-gentle exploration of what might be only a crease, but if people kept sticking their damn _fingers in it_ would surely be the death of him.

But then Nathan's fingers came back, coated with a soothing, cool salve, and he didn't mind quite so much when the bandage was laid, and then wrapped, firmly around his waist. Strong arms hoisted him upright, setting his head spinning, and he was halfway across the street before he worked out that it was Nathan on one side and Buck on the other. Between them, Chris's toes barely dragged on the ground.

"I can walk," he protested, trying to get his feet under him.

"Shut up, Chris." He ought to be able to tell which of them was shushing him. Hell, maybe it was both of them. The stairs were too narrow to go three abreast, so Nate did the hauling, and Buck led the way, swinging open the door of Chris's room and turning down the bed.

"Ain't tired," he tried. But it had about as much effect, and then he was lying in bed, covers folded down at his waist, with Buck lounging in the one spindle chair by the bed.

"Where'd Nate go?" He'd been there, Chris was sure. The light was different, too, diffuse and all the wrong angle.

"Back to patching up your friend Raphael." Buck leaned forward to lay the back of his hand on Chris's forehead. "Are you feelin' feverish? I think you're still hot."

"I'm fine," Chris ground out. "What the hell time is it?" It had been morning, he was sure, and he remembered the gunfight, and Buck had punched him, and after that, things got a bit blurry.

Buck lifted Chris's watch from the bedside table and waved it in front of his face. "Near on four o'clock."

"What happened?" To me. To the time. To the whole Inez and her Mexican kidnappers fiasco. He wasn't sure which he wanted to hear first, but he needed to know all of it.

"Don't fret, Chris." Buck put his serious face, the one he usually saved for apologizing to cuckolded husbands and comforting young children. "You're gonna be fine. Hell, even Raphael is probably gonna pull through. Everything else is being handled by someone in a lot better shape than you are right now. Just relax, and let someone else take the reins."

"But—"

"Hush." Chris hushed, not just because Buck told him, but also there was a hand, stroking through his hair, strong, callused fingers mapping the bones of his face, rubbing a tiny circle over the crease between his brows. "Did you mean what you said?"

"Huh?" He'd said a lot in the last twenty-four hours, wasn't used to saying things he didn't mean in general. But he couldn't think of one thing that would put that look of longing on Buck's face.

"When you said… Said you don't care if how many women I bed?"

Chris wasn't sure that was exactly what he'd said, but he guessed it was true enough.

"Because I ain't ready to give them up." That was as confusing as everything else. Buck give up women? That would be like JD taking a vow of silence. "But I don't want to give you up, either." Buck leaned in then, laying a close-mouthed kiss on Chris's lips. When he pulled away, it was just far enough to whisper in Chris's ear, "Please don't make me choose."

Words hadn't ever been Chris's specialty, so he didn't even try. He turned his head, catching Buck's mouth again, but there was nothing chaste about it this time. After a second, Buck kissed back just as hard, question answered, promise made.

THE END


End file.
